


Look me in the Eye (tell me what you see)

by RavenXavier



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, M/M, Season 4 Spoilers, more tags to come once the story is completed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-05-19 02:55:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19348075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenXavier/pseuds/RavenXavier
Summary: “Do you feel it?” Daisy asks at last, and it’s Basira’s turn to freeze.“What do you mean?”“I used to chase avatars all over, Basira,” Daisy says quietly. “I’d noticed, before the coffin. It’s stronger now.” Basira closes her eyes. “Told you,” Daisy adds, voice a bit rough. “I’m not an idiot.”“I don’t think you are,” Basira retorts. “I’m - yeah,” she admits eventually. “Yeah, I feel it.”(Basira & choices, feat Beholding)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic comes from "Bad Liar" from Imagine Dragons
> 
> The _alternate_ title of this fic is very much: "I'm team Beholding, are u guys surprised" so, be mindful of that.
> 
> Literally all there would be to this fic would be maybe half the first scene were it not for the amazing, fantastic, eternally best-person-ever-to-comment-and-cheer-a-writer-on, as well as awesome beta reader [ HermaeusMora ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermaeusMora/pseuds/HermaeusMora) . Please go tell them how great they are on their [ blog ](http://protectmartinblackwood.tumblr.com/). They deserve all the praises.

Basira doesn’t slip up - not really, not  _ out loud  _ at least. She, Daisy and Jon are going through several boxes of old files, have been for a couple of hours; from time to time, Jon suddenly raises his head and says  _ this one.  _ Whichever file he’s talking about, they diligently put it on the side with the rest of the few chosen ones, and they don’t think about the fact that Daisy tenses a little bit more every time it happens, or the fact that Jon’s face turns utterly blank and expressionless after the fourth one he’s -  _ felt _ . It’s their life, now. Better to make the best out of it. 

 

It’s Melanie who makes them stop eventually when she bursts into the room, cheeks flushed and hair in disarray, eyes bright and more alive than they’ve been in several months.

 

“Are you guys still at that? You must have at  _ least  _ a dozen of them already by now, isn’t that enough?”

 

“It’s a start,” says Daisy. She sounds hopeful, but she still stares carefully at Basira, waiting for her opinion. Basira tries to remember that it’s not new, though the knowledge isn’t particularly comforting. It’s easy to forget how much someone used to rely on you when they’re - when they’re not there. 

 

“Right,” she says, clearing her throat. “How did it go outside, Melanie?”

 

“Great,” Melanie answers, coming closer to perch on the chair next to Jon. “I think I only saw like, three or four of them today? Helen told me she took one of them yesterday. She said she wanted to have some fun, but she’ll be sure not to eat them entirely, so we can maybe get a few things out of them.”

 

Basira tries to repress a sudden surge of irritation. “Haven’t we decided she was going to stop that? We don’t get  _ anything  _ from the ones she takes -”

 

“Well, at least that’s one threat less,” Melanie cuts her off sharply. “She’s helping, that’s already something; I don’t think we’ve got much room to complain here.”

 

She’s not looking Basira directly in the eye; she never does, these days. It hurts. It feels… unfair. Yeah, she’s got a right to be angry - Basira knows that what she and Jon did wasn’t  _ right,  _ it wasn’t  _ moral,  _ but they  _ saved her.  _ It wasn’t like they had any other choice; Jon had the knowledge, and Basira had to make a decision. She still thinks it was the right decision too, and she’s almost sure that Melanie agrees, deep down. But she’s angry, and taking it all out on Basira, and it’s  _ unfair.  _ It’s painful. Basira already feels like she’s lost a goddamn lot to the Archives, and Melanie’s friendship, well - Melanie’s friendship was important to her. 

 

“Sure,” she says at last, because it would be too bothersome to start any sort of fight right now. She’s not Jon. She knows better than to let her emotions derail them from what they’re doing. “We all appreciate what she does. Is she going to join us or not?”

 

“Don’t think so,” Melanie shrugs. “She seemed rather gleeful.”

 

“...Right.” Basira doesn’t have any right to judge; she’s in love with a murderer too. “Let’s clear the boxes, we can check each file and see which ones are the ones we should deal with first.” 

 

“Jon,” Melanie calls out, bumping Jon’s shoulder. “Time to stop being creepy.”

 

“Mmh?” Jon’s head is still tilted on the side, face unreadable, his eyes far away. 

 

“God I hate it when he’s like that,” Melanie mutters, and waves her hand in front of him. “Earth to Jon. You’re not getting out of cleaning duty just ‘cause you’re a spooky monster.”

 

“I - what?” 

 

“We’ve only just begun, Jon,” Basira says calmly. “We’re going to need you with us to tell us whatever you can know.”

 

She doesn’t think it’s her voice that does the trick, of course; it might not even be the way she says  _ know.  _ If anything, Jon probably fully comes back to them because he’s heard that he’s needed - he certainly likes  _ that,  _ that much is abundantly clear. But it’s still her he looks at first, and his eyes drill into her mind, piercing and too attentive, unconsciously pulling at her thoughts. She lets him get them; memories of the last hour, at least. Then she says, with a cold warning in her voice:  _ Enough  _ and Jon flinches, his cheeks flushing with guilt.

 

“Sorry,” he says softly. “Sorry I - ah - Got a bit… distracted.”

 

“That’s fine,” she nods, ignoring the way Daisy frowns a bit and Melanie’s doubtful little noise. “Let’s just get to work, alright?”

 

“I still can’t believe how many people there are out there ready to start a cult over the dark,” Melanie says once they’ve put the boxes away, picking a statement at random and flipping through the pages casually. “Like, can’t those people worship something, I dunno, a bit more normal, like Satan or whatever?”

 

“Some people find it… comforting, to retreat into ignorance and darkness,” says Jon. He looks utterly unimpressed by that fact, which makes Melanie snort. 

 

“Well  _ you’d  _ think it’s bullshit, wouldn’t you?”

 

“If that’s supposed to be a jab, it’s a rather poor one,” Jon retorts dryly. “I won’t be shamed for trying to find answers.”

 

It’s not his role though, Basira thinks idly, comparing the statement of one Yollande T. and Professor K. Jackson. It’s hers. The Archivist doesn’t need to  _ look  _ for answers. The answers come to him, and he gets to classify them neatly into boxes and stories he can pry apart forever.  _ Looking  _ for the interesting answers though, connecting the dots, that’s -

 

She puts the statements down on the table abruptly. Daisy’s eyes linger on her, soft and worried. She wonders if she even looked away for a moment. Melanie crosses her arms on her chest warily. The Archivist stares, curious and eager, without blinking. He’s not the only one staring. The Eye’s gaze itches at the back of her neck. She breathes very carefully.

 

Not now. Not now. There are times for meltdowns, and questioning, and existential horror. It’s certainly not now, facing three people who need her to hold it together.

 

She doesn’t slip. She’s become very good at not slipping.

 

“Let’s read,” she tells them. “Prioritize the ones from 2015. If they  _ did  _ try to do their ritual then, we ought to know; there’s gotta be clues somewhere.”

 

“Anything from - scientists, or academia members might be useful as well,” says the -  _ Jon _ . “The Dark has a sense of humour choosing its victims, I believe.”

 

“Well then,” she says. “That’s a plan.”

 

* * *

 

“Hello, Detective,” says Elias three days later, smiling as pleasantly as ever.

 

“Right, okay, cut the crap,” she tells him, sitting down in front of him. “Either you explain to me what you mean by that, or you stop.”

 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you me -”

 

“I said, _ cut the crap _ ,” Basira repeats. “I’m not an idiot, Elias. I think we’ve been over this already.”

 

“Of course,” Elias says; the more he tries to be accommodating, the more she finds his voice aggravating. “I certainly wasn’t trying to insult you. I value your… clarity very much.”

 

“I bet you do,” she retorts, unimpressed.

 

His smile deepens. It almost looks genuine, too, which makes her grit her teeth. 

 

“I don’t know how much you need me to tell you, to be quite honest,” he says after a few seconds. “You seem to have figured it out pretty well by yourself already.”

 

“You’re trying to do the same thing to me that you did to Jon.” she states flatly. 

 

“I didn’t  _ do  _ anything to Jon,” Elias says. “Apart from, I suppose, offering him a choice. You’re not like him, however. He is - rather unique.”

 

“He gets to wear the crown, is that it?” Basira asks with raised eyebrows.

 

Elias’ eyes shine; he doesn’t answer, which, as far as she’s concerned, is pretty much a confirmation of what she’d been suspecting long before Jon woke up. The thought bothers her - it’s something else to worry about, on top of everything else. The Watcher’s Crown. If anything, she thinks guiltily, it was easier not to ponder too long on this particular ritual as long as Jon was asleep. Now, however, it feels like she can’t quite stop thinking about it, every time she’s not being distracted by more pressing, immediate concerns. Elias’ clear and unashamed confidence on the matter does not help things. Still - immediate concerns.

 

“Right,” she says. “So, not like Jon. Where do I fit in your pretty picture then?”

 

“Where would you like to be?” he asks. 

 

“Nowhere near it,” She retorts.

 

“You’re  _ already  _ in it, Basira,” he points out. “You signed a contract. Whether you like it or not, that ties you to our Patron.”

 

“I don’t see you asking for the others in there, though.” 

 

“Even now, I’d rather not have Melanie anywhere near me,” Elias says. “God knows what she could do. You understand I’m quite defenseless while I’m here.”

 

“Watch me cry,” she deadpans. “Fine then. What about Martin? Feels odd you let one of - your people do whatever he’s doing with the new boss.”

 

For the first time, she catches Elias’ smooth expression tense for a micro-second. She carefully notes that and sends it in a corner of her mind to examine later. 

 

“Martin,” he tells her, “is a rather special case.”

 

“Is he now? Lots of them around here apparently.”

 

“Yes,” Elias nods. “More than anticipated at first glance, certainly.” 

 

“Mmh.”

 

“ _ You _ are not one of them, however, Basira.” Elias leans in ever so slightly. “Your potential is - staggering, to say the least. You’re not only  _ in  _ the picture; you belong to it.”

 

Basira tries to stay calm. She’s usually good at it. But her heart is racing, and her fingers curl around her knee, as the constant gaze she feels upon her intensifies violently. She’s read about - about avatars, over the past few months. She’s read their statements, she’s listened to Jon’s tapes. Most of them talk of love; of adoration. The Eye, whatever it is, is not  _ kind.  _ It is cold, and heavy, and everywhere, and she may have to deal with it now, but she won’t be subdued, and she won’t let it  _ win.  _ She is not, she thinks, going to lose herself. That’s the only thing she’s got. She stares at Elias without a word. She knows better than to show any sort of outward emotions; what’s the point? Elias can see in her thoughts just fine, and he probably relishes in her fear. She doesn’t care. She is scared, but that’s not all there is to her, far from it. 

 

“We can… talk about this another time, if you’d rather, of course,” Elias says at last, the picture of indulgence. “We do have other matters to discuss, and the guards get nervous when we talk too long.”

 

“I’m not going to play your game any longer than I have to, Elias,” she says. “This - whatever this is - it’s only gonna happen as long as I think you’ve got something useful for me, to stop the world from ending. All the rest? I don’t care about it. I don’t want it, and it won’t have me.”

 

“Then we better go back to business,” Elias says calmly. “Far be it from me to keep you from the outside world longer than necessary, Detective.”

 

* * *

 

Daisy eats ice cream like she is discovering it for the first time: chaotically and with an air of bliss that is achingly familiar and new all at once. Basira watches her tongue flicker around the tiny plastic spoon, and wants to lean over the table to kiss her frozen lips. Chin in her hand, she tries to find the details that are  _ right  _ instead; her gaze lingering on Daisy’s face, mapping every little dimple and freckle, every small movement she makes, searching for something she’s not sure she remembers properly anymore. 

 

“You’re staring again,” says Daisy, after a while. 

 

“Sorry.”

 

“I don’t mind.”

 

Daisy’s eyes can still burn with intent, at random times; she cocks an eyebrow, and that makes Basira smile despite herself.

 

“How’s the ice cream?” she asks.

 

“Better than anything they’ve got at the institute,” Daisy says. “Want some?”

 

She offers her spoon and her gaze is still hot; expectant and curious as to what Basira will choose. Basira likes  _ that.  _ She’s rusty at the game, but it’s familiar enough that she leans in and takes the spoon in her mouth, circling Daisy’s wrist with her fingers for stability at the same time. The ice cream is cool and sweet - not Basira’s favourite flavour at all, but not bad. She purposefully moves her other arm at the same time, palm up, and she waits to see if Daisy’s going to take the bait. 

 

It’s something they used to do before, forever ago; back when Daisy lived to hunt. It would have been too easy to be devoured by her and her ruthless intensity - for anybody else, at least. But Basira had mastered her language, and then, she’d let herself be caught, but only in so far as she  _ wished to.  _ She gave and took back if any of her boundaries were pushed.  _ I am not prey,  _ she’d taught Daisy.  _ I am pack.  _

 

It takes Daisy two - three seconds at most; it’s far less than the first time she did it, a month ago, after the coffin. She grabs Basira’s arm, lets go of the spoon, and leans in over the table to pull her into a kiss. It’s gentler than Basira expected; of course it is. Daisy’s lips are cool and sweet like the icecream, and she can’t help but think, again,  _ not my favourite, but not bad.  _ It stings though. It keeps stinging, even if she doesn’t want it to. She tries to be slow, and she tries to be careful; she makes her fingers soft on Daisy’s wrist, her thumb gently running over the fragile skin, but it doesn’t stop her brain from chasing unsatisfyingly after something else. The whole picture is just… not  _ right _ . 

 

Basira bites Daisy’s lower lip on impulse; Daisy growls softly against her mouth in return, and she’s smiling when they both lose any pretense at gentleness. Daisy’s nails dig into her arm, and she presses harder, taking rather than waiting, and Basira shudders and fights back, her chest warming up pleasantly. 

 

Somewhere at the back of her mind, she worries that they’re going to be interrupted soon by the owner of the ice cream shop for public indecency. 

 

Somewhere, deeper still, she worries that she’s doing this all wrong, that she’s encouraging Daisy to fall back into instincts she doesn’t want anything to do with. 

  
But that’s _ somewhere else _ ; and for a few, blissful minutes, she forgets she has worries at all, and allows herself to merely be happy.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i will publish a new chapter once I've written at least a few more scenes of the fic 
> 
> me, a week later, having written two baby scenes of like 100 words each: .......................... good enough.

This is bigger than a potential Dark ritual. Basira doesn’t know  _ how  _ yet, but staring at the latest files Jon has given her to look over, it’s obvious. She wasn’t there this time when he picked them out; without a clear directive, he seems to have let the Eye choose for him what was important and it’s - well, it’s  _ worrying,  _ the way Jon leans into this recklessly, putting his mind in the hands of an all powerful Entity that cares for nothing if not more power, but she  _ can  _ admit that it’s useful as well. At first glance, all the statements are random. 

 

On second glance, they’re all about rituals.

 

On third look, well - they’re about  _ unfinished  _ rituals. Rituals that were stopped, one way or another. The Eye may be trying to give Jon a few clues specifically about the Dark - but if that was the case, why not scoop for people who went against it in the past and got away? It’s not just the Dark, she thinks, fingers tapping quietly against the paper; there’s something  _ more  _ and she knows it’s in there somewhere -

 

“Basira?”

 

Basira looks up abruptly. Jon’s standing in the doorway with a pinched expression; he’s holding a tray with two cups of tea in his hands, wavering on his feet without entering. Not work, then. Jon does not hesitate, when it’s for work, or an emergency. He only gets truly awkward when he’s trying to be  _ personal.  _

 

“What is it?” she sighs. 

 

“I - uh - I saw the light,” Jon clears his throat, his eyes softening when he catches sight of Daisy, fast asleep on the couch they stole from upstairs a while back. Basira tries not to be bothered by the fact that Daisy didn’t immediately wake up.  _ It’s proof Jon’s not a threat,  _ she tells herself, and wishes she could believe it entirely. “I thought you and Daisy might - It’s quite late,” he says at last, painfully awkward. “Are you - alright?”

 

“Just working,” Basira says. “We’ve got a lot to cover, and we don’t know how much time we’ve got.”

 

“Anything I can help with?” 

 

Basira thinks; Jon’s in now and he comes to carefully place the tray on the bare side of Basira’s desk. He’s trying to be casual and, as always, failing utterly. He’s so bad at pretending, it’s a wonder she ever thought him capable of getting away with murder barely a year or so ago. 

 

“Not yet,” she says at last, and Jon’s eyebrow twitches, but he nods gently. 

 

“Alright. I - Don’t forget to rest,” he tells her, without quite looking at her. “We - well, we are in constant danger, I suppose, but you shouldn’t - let it… get… to you. Too much.”

 

“Jon,” she says flatly. “What are you trying to do, exactly?”

 

“... Care?”

 

“And you thought the best way to do that was to turn into Martin somehow?”

 

Jon flinches and Basira feels guilty. 

 

“Sorry,” she says, immediately. “That was uncalled for.”

 

“No I - you’re right,” Jon sighs. “You’re right, that’s - exactly what I’m doing. I’m trying to be…  _ mindful.  _ Kind. I guess I don’t  _ have  _ many other models for it than - no offense,” he finishes and tries for a small smile. 

 

“Nah, that’s fair,” she admits, allowing herself to smile back. “C’mon, sit down. You’re hovering, and that doesn’t suit you.”

 

“... You’re sure…?”

 

“You did make two cups.” 

 

“Right.”

 

Jon sits, and Basira grabs the first cup of tea, taking a careful sip - she has to give credit where credit is due. Jon’s talent has vastly improved since he came back. Habit really is the key, she supposes. 

 

“You don’t need to try and be anyone else,” she says at last. “You’ve got enough going on without hiding behind someone else’s qualities. You’re good enough as  _ you. _ ”

 

Jon looks up, startled; she wonders what it says about  _ her _ , that he seems so baffled and touched by what she considers to be a mere fact - you are who you are, and you’ve got to deal with it one way or another. She doesn’t know what it says about  _ him,  _ that eventually his lips twist into something that barely resembles a smile and he mutters: “Am I, though?” 

 

What she knows is that she can’t answer that; this is not a conversation she can have with him. She’s never been one to analyse every little emotion she got; she recognizes them as what they are, and then she deals with them,  _ one way or another _ , without lingering too long on any of them. What’s the point? She’s aware enough to realize that some part of her doesn’t want to deal with it, that it’s too much of a useless task; the brain will never be able to fully understand the heart, it’s too vast, too deep, too complicated for logic. It’s funny, that she used to get along with Jon much more easily when he didn’t ponder his own emotions so much. She thought she’d be able to handle the Archivist, when he’d woken up - she’d handled Daisy for years. But it turns out the Archivist is soft and sad and lost, that he needs  _ comfort  _ when Basira can only offer action. And in the most ironic twist of all, she cannot handle Daisy anymore  _ either,  _ because she, too, has discovered a gentle heart that doesn’t want to hunt or hurt anymore - 

 

Basira drinks and does not answer, letting the conversation drop. Thankfully, no matter how much Jon wants to, he’s still terrible at talking about feelings, which means he does not try to speak more about it, and they sit in silence for a while together. It’s perhaps the most peaceful they’ve been since Jon came back, at least when they’re not working and it’s - it’s nice. It feels.  _ Right _ .  She idly wonders if, somewhere in his prison cell, Elias is watching them all smug and pleased. It’s enough for her to feel the Eye again; its piercing, intense glance tingling at the back of her mind, and she presses her lips in a tight, thin line, irritated. 

 

Jon’s shoulders are relaxed, his eyes a little bit lost. His tea is growing cold in his hands. Her heart skips a painful beat. This - this is what she lets herself fall into, sometimes; she lets herself be  _ comfortable  _ under the prying, monstrous being’s continuous stare that has ruined so many innocent people’s lives. Does Jon even  _ realize?  _ Probably not. There is a chance it’s too late, for him; he’s made his choice.  _ You cannot trust him,  _ she thinks to herself, and she wishes it didn’t hurt. 

 

“Have you seen him around, lately?” she asks, a bit briskly. 

 

She doesn’t need to say Martin’s name, and she knows that Jon doesn’t need any special knowing power to get who she’s talking about; it’s a fair bet he’s mostly thinking about Martin every time he’s not thinking about statements and rituals anyway, according to Daisy. Basira can believe it. She wants to think she’s not asking just because she’s curious about Jon; about Jon and his humanity, more specifically Jon and his - how had Elias described her to Daisy? -  _ last tie to humanity.  _ Is this what keeps Jon so soft, so  _ emotional _ ? Missing Martin? 

 

“No,” says Jon very quietly. “Not since he… Not since he asked that I stopped finding him.” he tries to take a sip of his tea and grimaces, putting the cup back on the trayl before glancing at her. “Have you?” 

 

“I haven’t been around the Institute that much,” she points out. “Do you know if he’s still around at all? I know he’s working with Lukas, but it’s been weeks since he was spotted -”

 

“Oh no, he’s here,” Jon assures her immediately. “He spends his time between Elias’ office and another old one, on the second floor.” 

 

Basira tenses. “How d’you know that?” she asks sharply. 

 

Jon frowns quietly at her. “I...know?” he ends up saying, waving vaguely at his head.

 

“Does that mean you always know where everybody is?” 

 

_ Do you know where I have been, all this time? Do you know about Elias?  _ She doesn’t ask, but he seems to get the meaning, because he shakes his head quickly.

 

“No, no it’s not -” he looks pained, for a second, his cheeks flushing slightly. “It’s, ah - it’s only Martin. I only…  _ know  _ about Martin. I don’t - I don’t have to think about it like I would for you.”

 

“Explain.”

 

“It’s -” Jon hesitates for a moment. “It’s like wearing a sweater,” he says at last. “You’re always aware you’re wearing the sweater, at the back of your mind. And if you were to look down at your arms, you wouldn’t be surprised to see the sweater or, or realize that it’s blue. You already knew that, because you’ve been wearing the sweater all day. The knowledge was already  _ there _ . But - But if I were to, to look for you or, or anybody else… It would be more like, knowing that you’ve got a sweater, somewhere, in your room, but you need to… Look for it. Actively. I mean, it’s not - I’m not explaining it well.” he mutters, looking annoyed at himself. 

 

“But you’re not wearing that particular sweater,” Basira says. “You’re nowhere near the sweater, it’s gone off elsewhere, so how do you know it’s right at the bottom of your wardrobe?”

 

“It’s not a  _ perfect  _ metaphor,” Jon grumbles. He’s not looking at her again. “Maybe it’s - maybe it’s because it’s my...oldest sweater. The one I’m most familiar with?”

 

“Mmh. Or it’s because you’re in love with him.”

 

“ _ I’m not - _ ” Jon starts vehemently and when Basira gives him a flat stare, he flushes again and sighs. “Or that,” he admits after a beat. He sounds sad. He certainly looks mopey They both carefully look at Daisy - she has an uncanny tendency to know when Jon gets like that - but Daisy just snores slightly, frowning lightly, and turns away from them like she can feel their gazes on her. 

 

“Have you seriously not been questioning it at all, though?” Basira asks at last. 

 

“I’ve been trying to ignore it mostly,” Jon says awkwardly. “It’s - a serious breach of privacy, and he  _ asked me  _ not to -”

 

“Jon, come on,” she says, a bit frustrated. “It’s - it’s bigger than that. You have abilities, you can’t just  _ ignore them.  _ You gotta figure out how they work, so you can  _ master them  _ and not let them just  _ happen to you.  _ If this is happening because you’re in love with Martin, then that means your - knowing is triggered by  _ emotions.  _ That’s a start.”

 

“I suppose I hadn’t - considered it like that,” Jon murmurs thoughtfully. 

 

_ Making connections _ , Basira thinks humourlessly, _ is my thing, not yours.  _

 

“I do think about you - and, and Melanie and Daisy, obviously - often enough though,” Jon says after a moment. “But if you don’t tell me beforehand, I don’t know where you are.”

 

“Maybe you’re not thinking about us  _ emotionally enough, _ ” Basira says, though she’s a bit doubtful. “So, Melanie,” she tests out. “Where is she right now?”

 

“Basira -” Jon begins

 

“D’you feel happy that she’s talking to you again? Or do you still feel guilty about the fact that she’s here at all? Guilty that you could take that bullet out of her but not -”

 

“ _ I get the point, _ ” Jon snaps, and Basira is ready to apologize, but then he laughs a pained, startled laugh and adds: “She’s - she’s  _ blurry _ . I’m going to take an educated guess and say she’s with Helen.”

 

“What about Martin?” 

 

“Sleeping in a cot in that second floor office,” Jon says, immediately and confidently. 

 

Basira leans in, ever so slightly; curiosity is nagging at her. 

 

“What about Elias?”

 

“I mean, that one doesn’t require any supernatural knowledge, he’s in prison -”

 

“But what’s he doing right now?” she insists. “Can you  _ know  _ that?”

 

“I,” Jon frowns. “I don’t know -”

 

“Try it then,” she says, and she can feel her own curiosity reflected in Jon’s eyes as he begins to genuinely concentrate. “I’m sure you’ve got a lot of feelings about the man.”

 

“That’s one way of putting it,” Jon retorts with a snort, but his voice is already a bit distant; his fingers curl and uncurl, and he pinches his lips, shuddering slightly, and then he says: “He’s in his cell.  _ Not  _ sleeping. He doesn’t sleep often; dreams are my specialty, I suppose, and there is so much to look for… I -” Jon’s voice fails him, as a pearl of sweat appears against his temple. 

 

“Jon?” she asks. “Jon!”

 

He stares at her, abruptly. For a moment, she swears she’s staring back into very blue, piercing, amused eyes. And then Jon half falls out of his chair, breathing hard, and she gets up to help him out, shaking off the violent, heavy,  _ pleased  _ gaze on her and the Archivist. 

 

“You okay?” she asks carefully.

 

“I,” Jon laughs a bit; he looks… almost giddy. Reinvigorated, at the very least. “I think Elias minded the late visit quite a bit.”

 

“Kinda hypocritical of him,” Basira points out, and Jon laughs a bit louder. “Are you… sure you’re fine?”

 

“Yes,” Jon says, smiling at her. “Yes I’m - you’re right. I need to master this.”

 

It strikes Basira, suddenly, that perhaps she’s made a mistake. But before she has time to truly question why she feels sudden dread in her stomach, even as some tingly, secretive part of her is rather impressed and interested and  _ more curious  _ as to how far Jon could  _ go,  _ Daisy makes a noise, and they both turn towards her immediately.

 

“Are you - hugging?” she asks sleepily, brow furrowed. “It’s about time.”

 

Basira and Jon move away from each other at the same time.

 

* * *

 

“Hello, Basira,” Elias says, a few days later, when she sits in front of him.

 

“What, no detective today?” she asks with raised eyebrows.

 

Elias smiles cooly. “I was trying to be sensitive; I’m aware the title makes you slightly… uneasy.”

 

“Sure,” she says. “And you’re all about taking our feelings into account.”

 

“Whenever I can, at the very least,” Elias retorts, and then, he crosses his hands on the table. “How’s Jon been doing, these past few days?”

 

“Splendid,” she deadpans. “Which you know, since you’re always watching.”

 

“I would have thought that such a simple distinction between what it means to know and what it means to watch would not escape  _ you _ .” 

 

He looks unimpressed. Basira blinks, studying him more carefully. “You’re angry at me,” she says at last, almost baffled. “I didn’t even know you could  _ be  _ angry.” 

 

“I’m not,” Elias says, sounding pointedly disdainful. “I suppose  _ frustrated  _ would be the closest thing to describe what I’m feeling.”

 

“It’s about Jon?”

 

“I believe I’d made myself quite clear as to the  _ conditions  _ for my continued cooperation with the police.” 

 

“He didn’t come here,” Basira says. 

 

“He reached into my mind - on your suggestion. Allow me to consider it just as much an unwanted visit as if he’d come here physically.”

 

“So, what?” she asks, unimpressed by his frosty tone. “You get to watch us all the time, but he doesn’t get to know what’s in your head for a few seconds?”

 

“Yes, essentially.” 

 

“I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear that.”

 

“Why, are you planning on telling him you’ve been seeing me since he woke up?” 

 

Basira’s lips press into a thin line. It’s infuriating, she thinks, that even here, chained and locked up, Elias still feels like he has the upper hand on every single little thing. She supposes she’s to blame, in a way, for keeping him a…  _ secret _ . But Jon’s - well she’s not sure how Jon would react, she’s not sure of what Jon would  _ do;  _ he’s still too much of a wild card for now, which means that she cannot win this particular battle. Still, though; 

 

“You watched me through his eyes,” she says after a moment. “I saw you, just for a second.”

 

“Jon’s power is still -  _ raw, _ ” Elias answers. “He’s powerful, no doubt, only he lacks years of - precision.”

 

“How did you do it though? You were  _ there. _ ”

 

“Why don’t you figure it out, Detective?” Elias asks with a brittle smile. 

 

“I will,” she says calmly.

 

For an absurd, short moment, it looks like Elias is almost fond, his cold exterior fading an instant. “Of course,” he says. “Let’s merely hope that moment of understanding will come when it needs to.”

 

“Uh. So that’s it, then? You’re not mad he went into your head. You were impressed. You’re mad cause he went in too early for your precious plans.”

 

“You are, as always, full of clarity, Basira.”

 

“Stop that,” she says briskly. “Praises may work on Jon, but your condescendance only annoys me.”

 

“Ah, yes, of course,” Elias nods agreeably. “Shall we get to work, then?”

 

“Let’s.”

 

“You’ve come here to tell me this isn’t only about the Dark Ritual.”

 

Basira glares at him. He smiles unashamedly. 

 

“Yes,” she says, forcing herself to remain as cool and collected as she can. Personal grievances shouldn’t meddle with saving-the-world business after all. “All the statements lead us to believe that the Dark did, in fact, attempt its ritual in 2015. Black sun and all.”

 

“But?” 

 

“But you were right,” she adds. Credits where credits are due. “There is increased activity up in the north. We’ve - interrogated a member of their Church, as well. They all seemed to imply something was going on. One said something very interesting though. He said that they needed to end our world so that they could prevent the end of  _ the  _ world.”

 

“Ah,” Elias says, much too lightly. 

 

“So that’s important,” Basira notes. 

 

“It certainly seems to be in the eyes of others,” he retorts, with a hinge of long-suffering superiority. “I don’t believe it matters much for us.”

 

“Yeah, it does,” she tells him, crossing her arms over her chest. “They’re rushing to do this. Why? Entities are - immortal, are they not? The fear of the dark isn’t going to fade soon; it’ll always be here. And there’s the fact that it’s not just the Dark, cropping up in the statements. It’s the Lonely; the Vast; the Slaughter; Desolation, as well. Now, they all attempted their rituals, apparently. Gertrude stopped them all. But I checked on how they’d operated then, and I’ve been looking into the most recent statements we’ve got. Jon’s agreed to give a call to the Institute in Beijing and the one in the States as well. They’re moving again. More people disappearing; more people  _ falling _ \- so, what’s  _ up? _ ”

 

“Mmh,” Elias says thoughtfully, staring piercingly at her. “I - didn’t expect your instincts to take you there.”

 

“Elias -”

 

“Fine, fine,” he says with a sigh. “Some  _ people _ believe that… something  _ new  _ is coming. A new fear, that might - well, that might wipe out the world as we know it, which would render all of us quite… meaningless.” 

 

“So they’re all trying a new ritual before that happens?” Basira asks. “God, this is fucked up.”

 

“They are fools,” Elias nods tranquilly. “There is very little chance their rituals might succeed at all; there’s no finesse in it, no proper preparation, it’s rushed and too close to the ones they’ve attempted before; they’ll probably lack the power such a thing requires in the first place -”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Basira says, and then, she blinks. “Unless they do them together.”

 

Elias raises his eyebrows. “Interesting hypothesis, Detective.”

 

Basira ignores the title. “Is it possible?” she asks. “Has it been done before?”

 

“I don’t think so, no,” Elias says thoughtfully. “There are  _ alliances _ , of course, and promises between powers to pull each other through when attempting one’s ritual, but it’s mostly politics - I doubt most of them ever considered truly sharing.” 

 

“Mmh.”

 

“I have some - documents, in my office, that might be of help,” he adds. “Old things, you’ll need Jon to translate I assume, but he was going to break into my safe soon enough, anyway; it - would be quite nice if you could refrain from showing him  _ all  _ that’s in there. Most of it would surely distract him from stopping whatever’s happening. His curiosity is, after all, quite boundless.”

 

“Right,” Basira says. “And I open the safe h -” The numbers flash in her mind, abruptly; it’s cool and clear, imprinted in her thoughts like cold ice on her hand, and she hisses furiously. “You have a  _ voice. _ ” she says, glaring at Elias.  

 

“And the walls have ears,” he points out.

 

“Do. Not. Do that.  _ Again. _ ” she snaps. 

 

“Quite disagreeable, is it not?” Elias smiles, polite and dangerous, and Basira’s fingers curl into a fist. “Do you think you have enough for now, Detective?”

 

“Yes,” she says. “I think we’re quite done here.”

 

“Good,” Elias says. “I trust you’ll have no problem getting into my office; do congratulate Daisy on her new job for me, by the way.”

 

Basira does not give him the satisfaction of an answer. She gets up and leaves, and knows that the Eye is following her, and how much is the Eye and how much is Elias is starting to blur and she’s - she’s -

 

She calls Daisy, hands trembling. “What is it?” Daisy asks immediately when she picks up. 

 

She’s too worried, perhaps; too careful; but there’s a sharpness in her question that still eases something in Basira’s chest. 

 

“We need to talk,” she tells her. “And we need to do it far from the Institute.”

 

* * *

 

“On a scale from one to ten,” Basira pants against Daisy’s mouth, three hours later. “How confident are you that you could fuck me, right now?”

 

Daisy stares at her a few seconds, eyes narrowed. Then, she claims another kiss, and she says: “Ten.”

 

Basira thinks,  _ last year, she’d have laughed and not answered, just got me to bed.  _ Then, she discards it, digging her nails into Daisy’s short hair. “Good enough,” she breathes out, and pulls them towards the mattress herself. 

 

* * *

 

They’re silent for a long time, afterwards; the sex was good, the sex was - but Basira has to help Daisy to the shower, because her legs are trembling too much to properly carry her weight, and the fragility of the situation - the wrongness of it - seems glaring to Basira as she gently, carefully massages her naked calves. Daisy stares at the ceiling for a long time as well, carrying such a vulnerable expression on her face that Basira can barely look at her. 

 

“What did you want to tell me, then?” Daisy asks eventually. 

 

Her voice is steady and collected, but it merely takes a glance for Basira to understand it’s not as easy for her as she would like to make believe. It’s like they’re both grabbing at someone who’s not really there, who perhaps never truly existed underneath the Hunt’s call, and it’s - it’s pointless. That Alice Tonner died in the coffin, and out of it came Daisy, the same but as soft and fragile as the flower at last; Basira really wants to believe that if it had only been physical, they would have both been okay, in the long run. As it is, in those moments, she wonders if she’ll ever be able to speak the same language as her partner ever again without herself or Daisy hurting in the process. 

 

“Don’t worry about it,” she says quietly. 

 

“You didn’t rent a lousy hotel room just to have sex with me, Basira, I’m not an idiot,” Daisy retorts, and there’s some half forgotten steel in her tone that makes Basira’s shoulders relax instinctively.

 

Basira wants to tell her about Elias; she wants to tell her about the Eye, how the weight of it grows stronger with each visit she pays to the man. She wants to speak of how  _ right _ it feels - and how terrifying that is when she thinks of the consequences - to be researching about old rituals and catching clues hidden in statements, how it was always her favourite part of any investigation, finding the connections, how when she was a child, she liked puzzles best. She could say  _ I have always been curious _ and  _ I have always liked to learn new things _ and  _ I have never once felt uncomfortable at the Magnus Institute, even when everybody else around me was crumbling _ . She could say  _ it’s unfair that I need to struggle against that on top of everything else  _ and god, she wants to, she wants to badly, sometimes, to scream like Melanie or to mope like Jon or to even just take the time to reflect on herself properly, like Daisy, but someone has to hold it together, and Basira is the only one who apparently can, for now -

 

“We can talk about it later,” she says instead. She bends down, kisses Daisy’s thigh and tells herself it’s not to distract them both. “I’m sorry,” she whispers against her skin. “Should have thought about this; you already came all this way.”

 

Above her, Daisy sighs quietly. “That one’s on me. I know my body, I know my limitations. You asked.” There’s a beat of silence. “Come here, Basira.”

 

“Your legs -”

 

“Survived worst,” Daisy retorts. 

 

She’s not  _ wrong.  _ Basira crawls up, settles comfortably against Daisy, cheek on her breast, and exhales softly when Daisy’s fingers dive into her hair, playing with it gently. That, at least, is not anything too shocking; in hindsight, Daisy’s brief tender moments after sex make more sense now than they used to before. She used to keep a firm grip on Basira, holding her close, kissing her and humming happily, hands gentle and mind at rest, just for a little while. It was amusing, Basira used to think.  _ Endearing.  _ That such a strong force of nature like Daisy, unmovable and ruthless, could cling like this after sex. It was one of Daisy’s little quirks, like her love for the Archers, her secret fondness for babies, and her addiction to candies. Little facts that broke through her tough exterior, that made her  _ Daisy  _ and not just Detective Tonner - 

 

For the several thousandth time since she got her partner back, Basira wonders just how much she truly knows her at all, letting her fingers trace idly the little scars on Daisy’s side. How much was Daisy and how much was the Hunt, and who, truly, Basira really fell in - 

 

“You were upset,” Daisy says at last, calmly, carefully. “On the phone.”

 

“Daisy -”

 

“ _ Tell me _ , Basira. What happened? What are you worried about?”

 

Basira stays silent for a moment; Daisy waits, longer than she would have, before (and god, Basira is tired of always thinking  _ before.  _ The word holds too much bitterness and longing for her, it’s too  _ emotional),  _ but eventually, she starts to fidget - even her softest version is impatient. 

 

“How did it - How does it feel?” Basira asks. “The Hunt?”

 

Daisy tenses. They’ve barely broached the subject, since Daisy tearfully, tiredly, painfully explained, head on Basira’s lap, a week outside of the coffin, after her first real panic attack. It’s probably both of their faults; Daisy wanted to move from it, and Basira - Basira didn’t want to think about it at all. 

 

“Like an itch,” Daisy says at last. She’s holding Basira a little bit harder. “Not - not quite like a song, but, but something that won’t go away until I acknowledge it _.  _ Until I fall for it. Like there’s a prey ‘round the corner, waiting for me to start chasing it. And it feels good, to scratch it; might even disappear, if you scratch it long and hard. But the itch comes back. It always -” Her voice falls a bit. “It comes back.”

 

“Has it?”

 

Daisy breathes loudly, her nails digging into Basira’s skin; Basira doesn’t wince at the pain. 

 

“It’s weaker,” Daisy says at last. “Jon says - Jon has suggested it might be like an addiction. I’m a recovering alcoholic, and I might wanna drink that drink, but as long as I don’t, I’m fine.”

 

“Mmh.”

 

She’s got no right to be jealous, she thinks, even as her heart squeezes in her chest. Part of her is  _ relieved  _ that Jon and Daisy have each other to talk to about all that; what could Basira even offer to the conversation? Jon’s given himself fully to the Eye, and Daisy had fallen for the Hunt years before Basira even  _ met her  _ -

 

“Do you feel it?” Daisy asks at last, and it’s Basira’s turn to freeze. 

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I used to chase avatars all over, Basira,” Daisy says quietly. “I’d noticed, before the coffin. It’s stronger now.” Basira closes her eyes. “Told you,” Daisy adds, voice a bit rough. “I’m not an idiot.”

 

“I don’t think you are,” Basira retorts. “I’m - yeah,” she admits eventually. “Yeah, I feel it.”

 

Daisy’s lips brush against her head. Nothing but gentleness; understanding; Basira almost wished she’d get mad - that she’d build a plan on the spot, that she did -  _ something.  _ But she only sounds even more careful, if to the point, when she asks:

 

“Developed any creepy powers yet?”

 

“Not to my knowledge,” Basira says. “Not sure I’m supposed to. Not sure I can… avoid it. If it happens. It’s not like I can  _ stop  _ investigating.”

 

“You have before,” Daisy points out.

 

“It was police,” Basira says, “And that’s not - it’s bigger than just quitting anyway; I can’t just know the world could end at any moment and wash my hands of it. That’s not who I am.”

 

(She doesn’t say that  _ quitting  _ the Institute feels achingly wrong in a way quitting police definitely wasn’t. She doesn’t say she doesn’t know how Elias does it; yes, he’s feeding his god still, he’s got his Eyes, just like Basira has her brain,  thriving from her expeditions, she knows it’s not just about a place, that it’s not how it works, but - but the Institute is something else; it’s powerful and it’s  _ theirs - _ ) 

 

(And Daisy, to her credit, does not point out that Basira doesn’t need to be affiliated to the Eye to save the world either, which is - good. She’d argued with herself about it before. She lost, and she can’t decide if it’s because she wanted to, deep down.) 

 

“It’ll get me,” she continues. She forces herself to stay clear-headed, to chase anything that’s too close to emotions. She needs to think, not to cry. “We need to form a plan, while we can, in case that happens. We can’t just hope I’ll be strong enough to resist it forever. Jon didn’t.”

 

“The Archivist before him did, didn’t she?”

 

“In a way, yeah, I think so,” Basira admits. She knows Jon doesn’t like Gertrude; fears turning into her. Basira respects her though. She did everything she could for the world, and without entirely succumbing to false deities. That demands a willpower that is admirable, even if the means she employed weren’t always. “She still ended up dead though.”

 

They fall quiet, for a little while; then Daisy says:

 

“We can’t just plan outside of the Institute. If the Eye’s interested in you, it’ll follow you no matter where we are.”

 

“I thought about that already,” Basira tells her. 

 

“Yeah?”

 

“There are two things that could watch us right now,” she says carefully. “One is a mere concept; it only gets its power through my fear of being known and watched - and I’m not saying it’s not strong, but it can be chased away, with the right distraction. The other is Elias. And the man has many flaws, but his priority is the Archivist and the Institute, and I don’t think he’d waste his time or his Eyes watching over one of his employees being intimate with someone else, even if the employee is not - even if I matter to his Patron. It’s beneath him.”

 

There’s a long pause, afterwards; Daisy’s hand slowly falls away from Basira’s hair.

 

“Did we just have sex because you needed to hide away from the Eye?” she asks

 

“It was the most efficient way for now,” Basira shrugs. Then she blinks and adds: “Doesn’t hurt that it was very good, too. I’d - missed this.”

 

“...Me too,” Daisy says. There’s something a bit off in her voice, Basira thinks. She doesn’t want to understand why, but the answers itches, at the back of her head. “C’mon. Let’s plan, then.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...haven't...written... a word... of this fic... in weeks.... 
> 
> I do have lots of the chapters already written. I have. I just. well. the podcast started again and it threw me off because Jonny's unpredictable like that. 
> 
> anyway, i hope you guys enjoy this chapter anyway. I'm going to finish this. one day. I am! i owe it to Basira who i love and adore.

“... I went into Elias’ office,” Jon tells her the next day with the intrepid and guilty air of a child who can’t hide he ate a candy he shouldn’t from his mother. 

 

Every single alarm bell in Basira’s body starts to ring loudly. She does her best not to tense up, forcing herself not to look away from Jon. 

 

“Did you?” she asks noncommittally. 

 

“He’s always been very good at keeping information from us,” Jon says defensively. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s still twelve steps ahead of us right now, even in prison, and Daisy’s breaking into his office left the lock - I mean, the logistics aren’t important. Point is, nothing has been really _forthcoming_ these days, from the Eye or from - anything else,” (To his credit, it does seem like he’s trying to keep the clear accusation towards her at a minimum,) “and I thought there could be something there.”

 

Basira tilts her head, looking at him pensively; this isn’t a coincidence. Can’t be. Elias had warned her that Jon might do this. Had he watched Jon do it, or had he - planned that Jon would? Did it really matter? After all, there was one single certainty about Jon Sims, the Archivist: if there was some knowledge to be gained _somewhere,_ he would rush to it without any second thoughts, probably. 

 

“Why are you telling me this?” She asks. 

 

It’s quite odd, to find herself at the receptive end of Jon’s famous _‘are you purposefully trying to look as idiotic as possible right now_ ’ look. She’s heard about it before of course - from Melanie, and in great detail from Martin - but she still bristles under it. 

 

“Because we’re a _team_ ,” Jon tells her emphatically. “And I’ve grown out of my ‘let’s do everything alone’ phase.”

 

_That_ is definitely pointed. Basira ignores it, because she’s a big girl. 

 

“Did you find anything?” she asks instead with raised eyebrows. 

 

“Statements, in a box - didn’t take all of them, I didn’t want to… arouse suspicion. There’s a safe as well though, I think that’s where the interesting bits are.”

 

“You think?”

 

“I couldn’t open it,” Jon mutters, a hint of frustration peeking through his voice. He glares vaguely at the ceiling. “My Patron is not the most _cooperative_.”

 

“Mmh.” The number dance in Basira’s head, as cool and clear as they were yesterday. “I could, perhaps,” she tells Jon, trying to think fast. Elias - the Eye, the difference between the two is probably too thin on this one to take into account - wants The Archivist to get to the safe. Not all of it, though, which means that Basira should… what? Go against it and let Jon gets his hands on everything? She scowls at herself internally. She should have seen this coming. She needs more time to think.

 

“You could?” Jon asks, surprised and eager. 

 

“You learn a lot more than one would suspect, at the academy,” Basira answers; it’s not a lie, which means that Jon only nods. She’s not sure he _could_ detect her lying, but she suspects that he might, one day and - well, it doesn’t hurt to get some preparation. “I’ll go take a look later.”

 

“We could go _now_ ,” Jon says. “It’s not like there’s any other lead -”

 

“What do you think is going to _be_ in Elias’ office?” she asks with a frown. “It’s not like the man ever gave us any straight answer, I doubt _he_ ever had a straight answer; just lots of plans for hypothetical scenarios. We can go there, yeah, but whatever he’s hiding up there, there’s no reason it’ll be more than we can find _here_. At some point, it stops being about knowing; it starts to be about common sense and reflection. We have the cards in hand: what do we do with them?”

 

It’s Jon’s turn to bristle: “Well, _knowing_ is all that I’m about, nowadays. And I don't think we can prepare anything if we go stumbling in the dark - quite literally -”

 

“Then check the tapes you’ve already taken,” Basira says steadily. “That’ll tell us if we should go back and retrieve all of them, or if this is a waste of time for now.”

 

Jon’s lips disappear into a thin line; she knows he wants to argue, and she doesn’t know what she’ll do if he does - for all that he’s still technically her boss, he’s been deferring to her on most things since he came back. She doesn’t know if it’s part of his plan to show his trust in her - in everybody - and their need to work together, or if it’s because he doesn’t trust himself anymore. Probably a little bit of both. 

 

“Fine,” he says at last, looking thoroughly unsatisfied. “I _know_ that there are important things in that safe though. I don’t think we should ignore them for long.”

 

_Yeah,_ Basira agrees. _I don’t think we will._

 

“Right. We’ll get to it.” At Jon’s frustrated look, she adds, more firmly: “We _will,_ Jon. I just don’t think we can afford to be distracted right now. If we’re right and the Dark is going to try something on the next Eclipse -”

 

“We’ve got very little time, yes, yes, you’re right,” Jon sighs. “I - I’ll go listen to the tape.”

 

“Good.” She hesitates for a while as he prepares to go, shoulders tense and tired lines around his eyes. “Jon?” He turns back towards her with a frown. “You’re fine with this, right?” she asks. 

 

“I just said -”

 

“I mean the tapes, the statements,” she clarifies, looking at him up and down. “You said they were making you feel better, after the hospital, but you’ve read a lot recently and you - well. You don’t look great.”

 

Jon snorts. “Thanks.” 

 

“Come on,” she presses on. “Can you handle it or not?”

 

“Yes,” he sighs. “The statements are not the problem, the statements are - they’re fine. It’s not like… It’s not like it was before,” he adds, more softly. “I’m just… tired. I don’t sleep much.”

 

“The nightmares.”

 

“Right.”

 

He’s not saying the whole truth either, she guesses, but it’s not like she can do much about it. She’s already pushed enough and he’s lost his stubbornness; he looks distracted and sad again which… was a risk. She feels bad. She _likes_ Jon. Liked. It’s hard to say, sometimes. Some part of her genuinely wants to help, but how? It’s not like she can offer sleeping pills, and they both know it. Jon’s something different now. _(Jon is a cautionary tale.)_

 

“I’m sorry, Jon,” she says at last and he looks back at her, startled, before offering her a small, wry smile.

 

“You lay in the bed you’ve made,” he tells her. “Tell me if you need anything, alright?”

 

“Sure.”

 

She watches him go and looks back down at the files on her desk afterwards, unable to properly concentrate. Jon’s too lost, she has to remind herself firmly, because she can feel the hinge of doubt tugging at her chest, and she hates it. Jon’s not in _control._ He might be, one day, and then she’ll be able to - but for now, she has to work alone. 

 

_You lay in the bed you’ve made._

 

She exhales softly and lets the Eye watch all It wants. She needs to get back to work. She needs to - figure out what to do. But that’s playing into Its plans, and her time is still hers. 

 

_You lay in the bed you’ve made._  

 

Sometimes she wonders, privately. What bed is she making, exactly?

 

* * *

 

When she goes to check on Jon again, in the middle of the afternoon, she finds him with Daisy; she’s sitting at the edge of his desk, tall and gorgeous and animated, and Basira takes a moment to look at her - it may be hard, between them, but this, just _this,_ it’s worth everything else. To have Daisy back, even - even different, it makes Basira’s heart pinch with absurd wonder every single time. She finds her lips stretching into a smile despite herself, and almost doesn’t want to interrupt. Jon sees her immediately though, of course he does. 

 

“Need any help?” he asks, rather hopefully. 

 

Daisy turns towards her and smiles at her slowly as well; it’s guarded; careful. Fair enough, thinks Basira, and clears her throat: 

 

“Nah, I just wanted to know if you guys need anything. I’m going to head to the grocery store before it gets too dark outside.”

 

“We’ve done that already this week… Haven’t we?” Jon frowns. 

 

“I might have run out of biscuits,” Basira admits. “You don’t want to see me without them.”

 

Jon snorts. “Fair enough. I’m good, though, thank you.”

 

“D’you want me to come with?” Daisy asks lightly, head tilted on the side. 

 

“I won’t be long,” Basira tells her. “You two just keep hanging out.” 

 

Their eyes meet; she doesn’t know what Daisy understands, but they’ve worked together for years, and she certainly understands _enough_. She frowns but nods sharply, and Basira nods back as subtly as she can. She’s almost passed through the door again when she suddenly remembers something.

 

“Jon?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Where’s Melanie right now?”

 

“Wha - oh. Oh. Let me -” Jon tenses for a few seconds, his eyes losing their focus, and then he looks horribly embarrassed. “She’s - uh. Well, I’m not sure It’s my place to say -”

 

“Therapy, right?”

 

“She told you?” he asks, with a hint of surprise that hurts, even though, well - 

 

“She didn’t have to,” Basira says with a shrug. Jon frowns, and she licks her lips. “She’s been leaving the Institute twice a week for the past three weeks at a regular hour, she comes back looking like she cried or broke something, and then she uses big and careful words with you the following days.” She waits a beat and then she says: “Also, you’ve just confirmed it.”

 

“I - right,” Jon looks abashed and amused. “I suppose it’s hard to turn off the detective instincts, uh? ”

 

Basira freezes, a cold shiver running down her spine. The Eye looks, Jon stares and it’s like she’s been punched in the stomach.

 

“What?” she asks and then, immediately after, she shakes her head. Not now. She can’t be distracted now. _There will be time for a meltdown later._ “Nevermind,” she says, before Jon can ask - he looks rather taken aback by her reaction, and she knows that if she lets it, it’ll turn into curiosity. Curiosity and Jon is the last combinaison she needs today. “What about Martin?”

 

“Library,” says Jon almost like a reflex, and she nods.

 

“Rosie?” 

 

“I -” Jon hums for several seconds. His fingers twitch and then he says, quietly: “Chatting with Hannah at the coffee machine.”

 

“Have you tried Peter Lukas yet?” she asks.

 

“When I came back here, yes,” Jon says. His voice is a bit firmer and distant all at once, right now. “But there’s _nothing._ Quite fitting for the Lonely, I suppose.”

 

“Mmh.”

 

“I could try again, maybe -” he begins thoughtfully.

 

“Don’t strain yourself,” Daisy says flatly.

 

Basira blinks as Jon startles. Daisy stares at them both, her shoulders tensed and her mouth disappearing into a thin line. 

 

“Right,” says Basira. “Right, well, I’m off now. Text me, if you remember anything.”

 

“Sure,” says Jon, a bit awkwardly. 

 

She takes a moment to stop and hide her face into her hands, to breathe out and let the fear run through her body, only when she reaches the third floor of the Institute and makes sure nobody is around. She doesn’t sink to the floor, and she doesn’t cry, but for one, single instant, she just listens to her heart pounding too hard in her chest, as Jon’s words resonate in her head. _It won’t get me,_ she thinks and then, _it already has._

 

It doesn’t matter, she tells herself after a minute, taking deep breaths to calm her body. By now, she’s heard of enough people clearly touched by the Eye - Gertrude, for starters, or even Gerard Keay, who Jon is so fond of - to know that if you’re careful, it won’t be able to get your obedience, won’t be able to _change you_ as thoroughly as Jon has been by choosing to come back. The day she calls herself Detective the way Jon says The Archivist, then she’ll know she’s lost. But she doesn’t plan to. Her mind and her will are her own, even if her actions are guided and her fear has been claimed. 

 

“I may play the detective,” she tells no one - probably Elias - “but that’s not for you.”

 

It’s easier, to think of it like that. _Playing along._ When she was a teenager, she used to joke to her sister about going undercover for dangerous police missions. She’d never gotten the possibility, being sectioned so early in her career (Section 31 didn’t play nice with monsters) but she supposes it’s a little bit like that now. 

 

Once her heartbeat is mostly back to normal, she glances down the corridor before making her way confidently to Elias’ office. She can’t think of anybody that might be here apart from Martin and Rosie, and Jon answered that nicely for her. As for Lukas, well - if the man wants to show his face one day, she’ll be the first one to welcome him. The lock is so obviously broken she wonders _how_ Martin has not seen it yet. Or Lukas, if Lukas really even comes here at all. Jon did say Martin wasn’t here _all_ the time, but it’s been a little over two weeks already since Daisy signed her own contract. _Someone_ must have approved it as well. For a moment, she wonders what the hell Martin’s plan is, what he’s been doing all these months. Then she discards it. Truth be told, she doesn’t think there’s much she could do for Martin right now, and there are more pressing matters to attend.

 

She hasn’t come in Elias’ office much since she’s been… _hired_ , but she feels immediately wrong in it. It’s _icy_ and silent, and taking further steps in it feels like disturbing something that was never meant to be invaded; a pocket of emptiness that she fills with too much of herself. The window seems clouded with faint mist. There’s pressure on her ears and she grits her teeth. She wants to call out for someone, which is idiotic because she’s alone ( _not just alone, lonely, she’s lonely, unable to reach the ones she loves - does she love anyone at all? Do they love_ her _?)_ which is exactly why she takes a short, heavy breath and says: 

 

“Are you here, Mr Lukas?”

 

The pocket explodes without a noise; Basira blinks, and suddenly she can hear the clock on her right, ticking slowly, and some vague background sounds coming off from the street below. Her mind wanders to Daisy, downstairs, talking and breathing and _alive_. She relaxes slightly, and scurries to the desk without further probing, holding on to the warmth of Daisy’s laughter at stupid police shows she likes to watch sometimes. She wonders if Daisy and Jon felt the loneliness slipping through their pores when they came here. Then she thinks - Daisy came not only for herself, but for Basira and Jon to begin with; her actions already cancelled out any Lonely influence. As for Jon, well - 

 

It is harder to feel truly, properly lonely when at every corner something is watching you. 

 

Basira knows it a bit too well. 

 

The safe is underneath the desk, barely hidden away. Something about it rubs her the wrong way: it’s too obvious a place, like Elias put it there as a gift, ready to be opened and looked through. How would he have done that, why would he have done that, though - that’s a question to try and figure out next time she sees him. She lets her hand run over the cool lock and doesn’t hesitate as she carefully, methodically enters the numbers dancing at the edge of her mind. The safe opens with a soft click and a sickly, bittersweet smell hits her. 

 

She recoils instinctively when the first thing that meets her eye is the dead, empty stare of a human skull. _What the fuck,_ she thinks, emphatically, genuinely hoping Elias is spying on her right now. _What the_ actual fuck, _Elias._ The skull is resting upon a bunch of papers tied together with an old, grey-blue ribbon. She does her best to hide her dismay as she puts the skull to the side, and grabs the papers - letters, as it turns out. _Dear Mr Magnus,_ starts the first one, _I have heard you are fond of stories concerning the strange and unnatural._ She goes through several others quickly; it’s the same writing every time, but slowly goes from _Mr Magnus_ to _My dear Jonah_ to _Dear love._ There is no signature on them except for the first one: _Your very much obliged, Mr Lukas._

 

Well, she thinks with raised eyebrows; at least that may be the beginning of an explanation as to why Lonely and Beholding might be working together right now. There’s some part of her that’s curious about it, of course. When she’d read about who the Lukases were, back when Peter Lukas had been... _appointed_ head of the Institute, it had struck her as quite odd that a family worshipping Loneliness of all things might be in any way interested in helping an Entity that works so poorly with their own. Those letters, she thinks now, merely go to prove what she’s known from the beginning: whatever those things _are_ , they are still being manipulated into their world by human people. The worst kind of human people, no doubt, but human people all the same. At least most of them, she privately amends, and ignores the chill running down her spine as the first, agonizing notes of circus music ring in her ear.    

 

She focuses back on the letters; they’re interesting, no doubt: she hasn’t thought much about the _Lonely_ so far  - she’s realistic enough to know that you cannot fight all fights at the same time, and while she doesn’t trust Elias, she trusts that he wouldn’t have confided his precious Institute to anyone _immediately_ dangerous - but the letters are _right here,_ probably filled with explanations and history on how all of this began. Maybe there are clues in the correspondence on how to fend off the pesky fog which has been clouding the roof of the Institute for months, even on sunny days, protecting it and shielding it from seeing clearly at the same time… 

 

She shakes her head slowly. No. No time for this. Not _now_ . Much as she absolutely hates to admit it, she understands why Elias didn’t want Jon to get there first. She doubts the Archivist has any sense of… _priorities_. He will eat whatever he is offered, and faced with a buffet, might very well reach for dessert first because it’s closer to his hand rather than the main dishes. Which means it falls on Basira to push the dessert away, at least for the time being. She carefully puts the letters in her handbag, and pursues her investigation. 

 

There are a handful of tapes annotated with the crisp, tight and small handwriting of Gertrude Robinson, a bunch of administrative papers - dating all the way back to 1818 - a large pile of files, and a few other papers that seem quite out of place in the well-ordered safe, a few, she’s almost certain, stuck together with spider silk. She sits down on the ground, and she gets to work. She sets the administrative papers aside immediately. _Irrelevant._ She goes through the tapes, keeps the one dating from the year of Gertrude’s death, which she knows coincides with the Dark’s ritual attempt, and another only named _Fall,_ dating from the 70s, mostly out of some weird instinct when she spots the weird goldish ink stain on it. The rest of them she puts with the letters, and then she does the same with the files and papers. Every single one she cannot read she puts on the _relevant_ pile. Elias would have not made a quip about Jon translating if he didn’t want them studied. 

 

There’s something oddly peaceful about it all. It reminds her of when she was a student, spending hours at the library, getting lost in the different books she needed for whatever current paper she had to write. It reminds her of long nights at the precinct, taking apart the different clues, building the links between them to gather the bigger picture. She falls into the same quiet, concentrated mindset, as everything else in the world fades away, until she hears nothing but the rustle of her fingers on paper and the slow beat of her heart. 

 

When she’s done, she closes back the safe, feeling utterly exhausted and pleasantly relaxed, and sits there for a moment, examining the piles in front of her. She hadn’t expected that much material, and she considers her bag with a slight frown before deciding that, in the worst case scenario, she’ll just fold the files. She picks them up and carefully rises up, grimacing at the sleepiness of her legs, and absolutely doesn’t hear the door opening. 

 

“... Basira?”

 

Her name feels as violent as a punch. She looks up swiftly. Martin is standing at the door, brow furrowed. He looks terrible; his shirt hanging on off his shoulders, his face paler than death, his mouth bitten and his eyes too red, contrasting with the dark shadows under his eyes. There’s something young about him that she’d never noticed before, but also, inexplicably, something incredibly old. It’s unsettling. (It’s _wrong,_ her gut aches. Martin’s _wrong._ She does not ignore her sharp instinct, eyeing him carefully, but refuses to let it show in any way)

 

“You’re quite light on your feet these days, huh?” she remarks with raised eyebrows.

 

Martin looks almost embarrassed for a short moment. “I… Yeah. Guess so.”

 

“Mmh.”

 

They stare at each other for a few seconds, and then Martin’s eyes fall on the files Basira still hasn’t put in her bag, and a complicated expression passes over his face. Basira straightens. 

 

“What are you doing here again?” he asks slowly. 

 

“What about you?” she asks back calmly. 

 

“I’m… I mean, paperwork, mostly.”

 

“New boss running you thin then?”

 

“Basira…”

 

“Yeah, I know. I won’t ask.”

 

“... Thank you.”

 

“I’ll appreciate if you don’t ask either,” she adds, tilting her chin towards the files. Martin starts to open his mouth, but she gives him a piercing look. “Look, Martin - you’ve made a choice. I respect it. But that goes both ways, alright?”

 

“Does Jon know you’re here?” he asks after a beat. 

 

“He will,” Basira shrugs. 

 

“Is he -” Martin winces, casting a glance around him, and then presses his lips together. “Nevermind. I won’t ask, fine, but you - really shouldn’t be here.”

 

“I was done anyway,” Basira nods curtly. 

 

“Right. Right.” He looks at the files again, and then at something behind Basira, in the corner of the room. Basira turns slightly to see what he’s staring at. There’s a box there, innocuous enough though there’s some dust on it that glistens like gold under the light, and she cocks an eyebrow. “If you’re _sure_ you’re done -” Martin starts again, and this time, he sounds excessively pointed. 

 

It’s not hard to catch a clue as big as this one. “Maybe not quite yet,” she says, and goes to take a look at the box. There are several tape recorders in there, messily piled on top of each other. A few are so dusty they seem to shine when the light catches them. She bends down, waits for Martin to say something, but he’s awfully quiet, so she instinctively grabs the one that shines brightest. 

 

It takes her several lingering seconds to realize that it doesn’t stop shining, even in her hands, shielded away from the office lamp. She almost lets it fall on the ground when she understands, mouth dry and heart racing. She’s being watched. No. She’s being scrutinized, head to toe, and every single one of her hairs rises on her skin. She grips the tape harder, and turns back to Martin. He’s looking at her like he’s trying to say something to her. _I’m not the mind reader_ , she wants to tell him, something hysterical bubbling down her throat. There are little particles of gold all over him, dancing around his hair like a weird aura. 

 

“Are you okay?” he asks, his frown deepening. 

 

“Yes,” she says, distantly; there’s a brighter spot on his shoulder, that’s shying away from her eyes when she focuses on it. It’s - frustrating. _She wants to see -_

 

“You don’t - You don’t _look_ okay,” Martin tells her, and genuine concern is piercing through now.

 

She almost asks. _How do I look?_ Does she looks as odd as Jon does at the height of his - she blinks. She forces herself to blink, several times, just to make sure she _can,_ and she keeps her mouth shut. Something tells her that it’s best not to clue Martin in on that particular development yet. (He’s _wrong_ . He’s not - _theirs,_ not - not quite, not yet, not - ever?)

 

“I should go,” she declares abruptly.

 

Martin looks thrown off. “I… Okay?”

 

She licks her lips, forces herself to walk back to her bag, piling up as neatly as she can the tape and folded files and doesn’t allow herself a second of doubt. She needs to leave. 

 

“Basira, are you sure -”

 

She stares at him. Truly stares. Martin stills. 

 

“Do you think you’ve made the right choice, Martin?” she asks him. 

 

It’s funny, she thinks as he straightens up, unconsciously tilting his chin defensively, he’s taller than she remembers him being. Firmer. There’s no compulsion in her voice of course; she’s not here for the stories themselves, not even the truth, but for what they create when put together. Still. Martin says _yeah, I am,_ like there’s no other answer he could think of, and she nods briskly. 

 

“The others,” she says slowly. “They don’t know what it’s been like. Even Melanie. She was there but she wasn’t - you don’t _look_ okay either,” she tells him, and he startles as if he’s surprised she’s noticed. “But we both made our choices. We just - we just need to be careful. Whatever it is you’re doing, Martin… _Be careful._ ”

 

From the corner of her eyes, she sees it; the small spider running down Martin’s shoulder.

 

“You too,” Martin says quietly. Softly. 

 

He lets her go without any other word.

 

She stares at her trembling hands for a long time in the corridor; she can’t have a meltdown now, she thinks. She’s got to get to the grocery store before it closes, or Jon will get suspicious. She has work to do.

 

There’s no time for crying. She’ll just - she’ll be able to talk about it to Daisy. Later. Eventually. 

 

It’s the careful thing to do.

 

* * *

 

How does one choose to move away from something that has already claimed them? Michael Crew threw himself from a window so that he may fall forever instead of becoming someone who wasn’t there. Basira has no wish to escape the Eye if it only means having to unwillingly serve another Entity for the rest of her life. She has no wish to _hurt_ people, and she knows it’s the only purpose of all of them.  She already _has_ a God too. One she is faithful to since childhood. 

 

…Is there a way that isn’t giving yourself at all? Is turning away a real choice, a realistic possibility, when all that you are, all that you ever chose to be before, led you right to the doorstep of perpetual horror? Can she renounce the Eye like others renounce their faith when her whole identity seems to be an unconscious ode to what it preaches? Would it mean renouncing _herself_? 

 

Is Daisy still Daisy? Should Basira dive into the Dark to… (she remembers, though. She remembers holding out the feeble beam of her torchlight and feeling the darkness, all encompassing and impossible to escape, crushing her beyond what words could express, taking away not only her sight but slowly all her other senses as well. She still has nightmares, some nights, about what happened the day Raynor died.) 

 

Is Jon still Jon? Could Basira trust herself still, if she were not trying to resist the bright clarity that hangs at the back of her mind, the tendrils of gold that want to highlight everything that fits the puzzle of the world for her, for - it? If who she is is the reason she is here in the first place, then is it not a logical conclusion then to accept to follow the path she seems to have been on for far longer than she can remember? 

 

There are others, she tells herself. So many others who resisted. So many others who _died_. She remembers the frail, decomposed corpse of Gertrude Robinson. She remembers staring into her eyes; they were bright open and empty, and still they stared at Basira as if they knew her. Recognized her. Daisy had muttered “freaky institute” under her breath, right next to her. Basira had felt chilled.

 

(“You’re alright?” Daisy had asked, a minute later, hand brushing over her arm. “Yeah,” Basira had said. She was still staring at Gertrude Robinson’s eyes. She could have sworn they’d been brown, when they’d entered the room, but now there was definitely some blue in them - “Yeah,” she’d repeated. “Have you got the situation under control here? I’m going to go meet with the staff.”) 

 

(Elias’ eyes were blue. She had not been able to hold his gaze, and had decided to think nothing of it, though she had not ignored the twist in her stomach, as she wrote down the entirely unhelpful and evasive answers he provided with the most polite voice she’d ever heard before.) 

 

(And then there’d been Jon. Thin and worn out and walking with a cane, white scars all over his skin. He’d been playing with his tape recorder, when she’d entered the room. He was nervous. On edge. Then he had raised his eyes. Impossibly dark and hungry, seeking and craving, tinged with a hint of gold.) (For a brief second, Basira had been rooted to the spot. _Run_ , she’d thought. _Turn away, and run._ And then, her legs working again, she’d sat down, and replied to her own feelings, _He’s the one who’s got the answers.)_

 

(“You sure?” Daisy had asked later, in the precinct. “Yeah,” Basira had said, because her guts had recognized a dangerous situation, a dangerous _man_ , hadn’t they? “Yeah, he’s the one who did it.”) 

 

(She’d gone back, instead of letting Daisy handle it.) 

 

(A choice.) 

 

Is there any way to back out when you’re already in the middle of it? Is the only choice left to live, like Jon, or to die, like Gertrude? 

 

That night she gently kneels on her prayer mat, closes her eyes, and asks her God.

 

Allah stays silent. 

 

Still she chooses to believe that beyond the Eye, He, too, is watching over her.

 

* * *

 

“If it came down to it,” she whispers against Daisy’s cheek. “Would you do it?”

 

The sheets rustle. There is no other sound, but Basira knows better than to think she’s asleep. 

 

“I couldn’t.” Daisy says at last. 

 

Perfect certainty. Basira loves her. She loves her so much. 

 

She turns on her other side quietly.

**Author's Note:**

> I am, as always, forever rambling about TMA on my [ blog ](http://somuchbetterthanthat.tumblr.com/) so, if you happen to have half as many feelings than me about Basira being a Beholding Gal, feel free to come chat!


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